The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,61

it at the knee and use the other foot to tease off your shoe.’ She raised her head in protest.

‘No. No. Stay there. Now close your eyes and dream of something nice.’

Closing her eyes made her feel vulnerable and she could feel herself stiffening up again.

‘Or wasabi Kit-Kats.’

She laughed, relaxing as she did. ‘That isn’t something nice.’

‘Made you smile though.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Think about your favourite thing since you’ve come to Japan.’

With her eyes closed it was simple to sift through the memories of the last few days and easy to settle upon the memory of sitting in the garden with Haruka and Setsuko.

‘Now, I’m going to have to ask, you look very happy—No, don’t open your eyes. Stay there, wherever you’re thinking of. That’s perfect.’

‘Haruka’s garden. Tree bathing.’ She shot him a smug grin. ‘Be honest, you felt better after I took you out on the balcony. After you communed with nature for a few minutes.’ She thought he might deny it but instead he tilted his head to one side and nodded.

‘Point taken. Thank you. I was a bit wound up. This is an important job. Have you taken any pictures of Haruka’s garden yet?’

‘Funnily enough, no.’ It was something she ought to rectify.

‘Now lift a hand behind your head and stroke along the length of your hair. Feel the silkiness of it.’

Busy thinking about how she might approach taking pictures of the garden, Fiona complied, remembering the acer leaves dancing in the slight breeze and the soft sway of the cherry tree branches.

‘Excellent. That’s it. Thank you, that’s really helpful.’

She came to with a start and sat up hurriedly, frowning. Gabe had his back to her and was fiddling about with a different camera. ‘Are you really going to get him to lie down like that?’

Gabe turned around, his eyes sliding to the window, a rather too innocent smile on his face. It was the sort of expression you’d find on the face of a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.

‘No. Sorry. As soon as you lay down, I realised the light was all wrong.’

‘You could have said something earlier.’ Fiona now felt a little foolish.

‘You know photographers. Keep flogging a dead horse. I thought if I changed angles … it might … but nothing worked. Thanks for your help though.’

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You are going to delete all those shots … aren’t you?’

‘Of course,’ he said airily and a shade too quickly before he went back to flicking through the shots he’d taken, nodding and running a hand over his mouth at periodic intervals as he weighed up the pictures.

‘Promise?’ Was she being ridiculously being paranoid? After all, why would Gabe want to keep pictures of her?

***

When the actor and a huge entourage arrived, the room suddenly filled up and there was an awful lot of bowing. Thankfully everyone spoke English and there was a flurry of introductions from the publicity girl from the film company, an uber-fashionable, strident young woman in cream, wide-legged culottes, blood-red loafers, ankle socks and a deconstructed square T-shirt. Fiona nodded and bowed as she was introduced to the make-up artist, her assistant, Ken’s agent, the agent’s assistant and a stylist along with her assistant pulling a wardrobe rail holding at least six suits and an extensive selection of casual wear.

Fiona widened her eyes at the sight of all the extra people and turned to Gabe who simply rolled his eyes, ignored everyone and strode straight over to Ken.

‘Hi Ken. Good to see you again.’

‘Gabriel. Good to be here.’ After a quick bow, they shook hands, firm and manly with a definite touch of familiarity. It was easy to see that the two men liked and respected each other.

Ken was wearing a mid-blue suit which had that sort of fluidity and silkiness that suggested it was extremely expensive and, as Gabe had predicted, he was a man completely at home in his own skin.

‘Right, let’s get started,’ said Gabe while the entourage was still fussing and arranging themselves – the make-up girl setting up her brushes and various pots on the console table on the side, the stylists flicking through the hangers on the rail while the agent and his assistant whispered to each other.

‘I’d like you to sit here.’ Gabe led him over to the sofa.

One of the stylists darted forward, holding a suit on a hanger in each hand, and spoke in a torrent of Japanese. Ken shook his head, stroked his fingers down at his own suit